17
Brock
Days passed. Weeks passed.
I found myself returning to myself, the fear gone, a sense of humanity I’d lost in killing Griz slowly settling back inside my head.
His skin eventually made its way into the cabin, scraped, tanned, and softened, and sat at the end of my bed for when cold weather truly hit. Enough bear jerky lay stored up for the months ahead, and I’d even gone all old-school whittle-man on the bones, making utensils and a bear claw necklace.
Four bear ‘hams’ hung in in the back of my cache where it stayed cool enough the meat wouldn’t turn rancid. I had a few jars of bear lard rendered down and had dined on ribs I’d soaked and smoked over an open fire for days on end.
A sense of satisfaction I’d never experienced before settled over me every time I glanced at the
